


What Happens in the Closet in Budapest Stays in the Closet in Budapest

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Community: rounds of kink, Crackastic, F/M, Kink: Accidental Simulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6656938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s more or less Sara’s fault, she’ll admit that much (not to him, only to herself). In her defense, it was either the tiny dark closet or being found out by Savage’s minions as she and Snart were raiding his 1983’s study in Budapest. So when the minions entered the room, she didn’t hesitate: she shoved Snart in the closet, followed and quickly shut the door after them. From where Sara stands, Snart should be thanking her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens in the Closet in Budapest Stays in the Closet in Budapest

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I locked them in a closet. I don’t pretend to be original. Needless to say, don’t look for a plot ;)  
> Written for 2016 April Fools Mini-Round of Rounds of Kink @ LiveJournal. Kink & prompt: Accidental simulation & paper flowers  
> Many thanks to Foxriverinmate for the beta.

It’s not that Snart doesn’t know what to with his hands. (Like the cool as a cucumber Captain Cold would ever be caught feeling awkward.)

It’s that there’s nowhere where he can put them.

Because he and Sara are locked in a tiny closet.

A tiny teeny and dark closet. To the point that they can hardly breathe and would be well advised not to try to move too much.

It’s more or less Sara’s fault, she’ll admit that much (not to him, only to herself). In her defense, it was either the tiny dark closet or being found out by Savage’s minions as she and Snart were raiding his 1983’s study in Budapest. So when the minions entered the room, she didn’t hesitate: she shoved Snart in the closet, followed and quickly shut the door after them.

From where Sara stands, Snart should be thanking her.

(The fact they can’t open the door is only a minor setback. The fact that Snart isn’t a fan of close contact and must endure being squished between her and the walls is only marginally relevant.)

“From where you stand? You mean in a closet in which we’re going to start suffocating in approximately five minutes?”

Ugh. Here comes melodramatic Snart. He’s obviously never been locked in places even tinier and darker than that damn closet; she did and honestly, the closet isn’t so bad. Yes, it’s barely large enough for one person to stand in — let alone two — but it’s reasonably clean and dust-free, and empty except for a paper flower garland hanging from a hook on the door that she spotted before she slammed the door shut. Why would Savage keep a paper flower garland in his closet is beyond her but she’s seen stranger things happen so whatever.

Anyway, back to Snart’s hands. He can’t put them down his own body — no room to move that much. He won’t keep them up. (He’s not a fan of holding his hands up for obvious reasons, being a criminal and all... bad memories). Putting them in his pockets or crossing his arms pertains to the realm of fantasy right now. So eventually, he rests them on Sara’s shoulders. She lets him. A bit because she’s the one who locked them in there. A bit because she can’t move enough to do anything about it anyway. To some extent because the touch isn’t unpleasant. (Her shoulders are bare and his hands are surprisingly warm and gentle.)

“So, what now, Canary?”

She throws her head back to take a deep breath and the nape of her neck hits his shoulder. Right. They’re that close that it can’t be avoided. It’s not like the neck-shoulder connection is the worst one anyway, considering her back is pressed into his chest and her calves are resting against his shins. And yes, everything in-between is also kind of squeezed together and it would be kind of fazing if she wasn't a highly trained assassin in full control of her body’s reactions.

She’s unfazed. She’s totally unfazed. She feels warm hands on her bare shoulders, warm breath in her hair, a subtly toned torso against her back, and she smells a nice blend of cologne and leather, but she’s unfazed by all of this. She’s a pro.

She tries to fiddle with the door handle, but she’s not the one with the amazing lock picking skills. The one with the amazing lock picking skills can’t reach the lock.

Also, they have another problem. Precisely, _Snart_ has another problem (‘cause she’s unfazed, remember?)

“Leonard, I think you’re happy to see me.”

For now, his _happiness_ is barely starting to manifest itself in the small of her back, but it’s getting more obvious and insistent with each passing second and each minute shifting of her hips that she can’t help.

He misses a breath or two, like he’s analyzing her remark and acknowledging its accuracy (and maybe biting back a couple of swear words). Then, his voice laden with sarcasm: “I’m always happy to see you, Sara. Are you going anywhere with this door?”

“Yes. I’ve unlocked it and didn’t say anything because I enjoy your presence so much that I want to keep this up a bit longer.”

The bright side of being crushed against Captain Cold? She can experience every little annoyed inhalation he has to take in order to keep his cool. (Tip: at this instant, he’s definitely not as cool as he’d look from a distance.)

“You know we’re going to have to do it, right?” he tells her.

She tries to crane her neck to look at him. Useless. One, even she is not that limber. Two, it’s fucking dark in here anyway.

“Yes,” she says reluctantly.

She hopes he means contacting the team and asking them for help. (What else could he mean, huh?) It’s going to be awkward, asking for this kind of help in this kind of situation, but sometimes legends in the making have to do what legends in the making have to do. Especially after they locked themselves in a tiny dark closet.

“But first, let’s try...” His right hand slides off her shoulder, skims over her hip and drifts down her stomach; and then a bit lower. He barely bothers drawling,” Sorry about that, Lance,” before patting the inner seam of her leather pants.

For someone who isn’t touchy-feely, he _is_ quite touchy-feely.

She does not squeak, creak or screech. Nope. She is a highly trained assassin in full control of her body’s reactions (as aforementioned) so no squeaking, creaking or screeching. She _might_ squeeze her legs together but _only_ as a protective reflex, _not_ to trap his hand where he snaked it.

He moves his fingers back and forth a few times, seemingly looking for something, all the while becoming happier and happier to see her.

(It occurs to her that her thighs are still firmly pressed together. It’s just because she doesn’t have a choice, of course, the closet not allowing much freedom of movement.)

“I was wondering, Snart... When we’re out of here and I break your fingers one by one, slowly and painfully, do you prefer that I start with your right hand or with the left one?”

She knows retaliation when she sees it, and this — his fingers gently grazing her — is retaliation. It’s out of proportion for just a small and very true remark about his happiness.

“I’m just looking for one of your blades. It would help us to pick the lock.”

Innocence is thick in his tone. She’s impressed he can remember what innocence was like well enough to fake it.

“I don’t hide any blade _there_.” She pauses to think. “I do have one in a pouch on the back of my pants, though.”

“I can’t reach the back of your pants,” he points out.

That’s a disappointment. She thought his hands were so nimble that he could sneak them pretty much anywhere and everywhere. Apparently, her butt neatly snuggled into his lower belly is out of his range in their current situation.

“OK...”

It requires effort and much pressing and rubbing — her ass and hips against his stomach, her breasts onto his arms and chest, his hands wherever and whatever they can grab and hold to help her spin around — but eventually, she manages to turn around and face him. She feels a bit warm and breathless, but it has to be because it’s really hot in that closest. As for him, he’s really super-happy to see her, at this point. She raises her arms and wraps them around his neck. For easier access. To grant him easier access to her knife pouch, she means.

He retrieves the knife with minimal fumbling and sighs a little. He’s got a good idea of what’s coming next — and he’s right about it. He needs to learn not to raise the stakes too much with her.

“You mean to turn around again, don’t you?”

His lips brush over her brow when he speaks. Without even thinking about it, she tips her head back in a natural gesture.

“It depends.” She’s a wise woman: on second thought, getting out of here is more important than having the last word on him. “Can you reach the lock now?”

He tries. His arms around her waist, her face and breasts tight against his chest, he reaches and reaches and reaches — and then there’s a metallic rattle followed by a heated curse. He grumbles something she can’t quite get the first time so he says it again.

“I dropped the blade.”

“You what?” she demands, her words half-stifled by his sweater. “You never drop anything.”

“I appreciate your high opinion of my skills. I dropped something this time.”

The molding of the wooden door is biting into her ass and she’s pressing so intimately against Captain Cold that she may start melting into him any minute now. Bottom line: she has no space at all to shimmy down and pick up the blade.

(Also, she’s not keen on shimming down Snart in such a cramped space and facing certain stiff parts of him. At least, that’s an issue she doesn’t have to think about since she can’t shimmy down at all.)

“Shit,” she grinds out.

“Yes. We have to do it. Come on, Lance. Like a band-aid: fast and gritting your teeth.”

She shakes her head and taps her earpiece to connect to the Waverider.

“Yeah, Blondie?” a gravelly voice asks.

Great. Mick. Could have been worse.

Or not.

“Rory...” OK, like a band-aid. “We’re locked in Savage’s study. East wing of the mansion. Requiring assistance ASAP.”

There’s a blank at the other end of the call.

“What do you mean, you’re locked in? Snart can pick his way out of—”

“Connect me,” Snart demands.

He can’t fucking reach his earpiece with his hands on her back ( _not_ on her ass, mind you) being unable to move them and all; he fucking needs Sara to do it for him.

“We’re locked in the study’s closet, Mick. Move your ass.”

Another blank as Mick — and probably the others — checks the mansion’s layout. Mick doesn’t bother hiding a chuckle when he comes back online.

“I think what you meant here, Snart, was ‘Move your ass, _please_ ’. Though it’s a tiny closet. You and Sara must be really snugly in there. Sure you need help?”

Sara takes a deep breath.

“Rory, you’ll have to get us out of here sooner or later, you know that, right? The sooner the better. I can assure you, even with your new training, you don’t want to mess with me right now.”

“She has some _dirty_ moves,” Snart quips. The ‘dirty’ is exceptionally long, even for him.

Sara rolls her eyes at the not-subtle innuendo.

“Ms. Lance, Mr. Snart.”

Odd how, for once, they’re happy to hear Rip on the other end of the line.

“You’ll have to wait a little longer. Savage and his people are leaving the place. They’re done with the study so it’s safer for you to wait where you are for now. I’ll send in a rescue team as soon as the property is clear.”

“Captain Hunter, it appears Mr. Snart has finally found the one place he can’t break out of on his own,” Gideon says before Rip shuts her down and ends the communication.

Snart pretends he didn’t hear what Gideon just said — he’ll get back to the AI later, no doubt about that — and Sara disconnects them on their end too. Just in case.

“So we wait...”

“We wait,” Sara confirms.

They wait. It’s hard to say for how long. They try not to move too much. Two (or twenty) minutes after their call to the Waverider, Snart’s nose tickles him but Sara refuses to scratch it for him so he rubs it on the top of her head. She protests. He doesn’t care. He knows she won’t head-butt him, he tells her, because if she did, she’d have to deal with his nose bleeding in her hair.

“You’re gross.”

She shifts her legs to get a better stance, he shifts his to accommodate her, and they end up with their legs entwined. One of his hands rests lightly on the small of her back, holding her like they’re about to dance. It does nothing to help with his happiness. Truth be told, it does nothing to help with the happiness that’s growing on her side, even though hers is less obvious — one upside of being a woman, for once, and of wearing a thick leather suit.

Snart moves his leg again, and Sara would bet he does it very deliberately and consciously because she ends up all but riding his knee.

It’s not unpleasant. She lets herself slouch down a bit. To rest her legs, you know, because they’ve been in here for a while. Her training taught her how to stay put, but it also taught her how to seize any chance to rest. So she seizes this chance. And she offers one to Snart by cramming her knee between his because she believes in equal opportunities.

It turns out that Snart might not have a League of Assassins’ training but he does know how to grab a good opportunity.

No surprise here.

* * *

When Mick and Kendra unlock the door and release them, Sara and Snart blink at the sudden bright light, step out of the closet, and stretch their legs and arms with a delight that’s almost embarrassing to witness. (Kendra side-eyes Sara when she moans out loud in a nearly orgasmic way.) Luckily, Mick doesn’t embarrass easily and Kendra has certainly seen worse things in four thousand years, even if she can’t remember all of them.

Team Rescue blink (and maybe smirk a little bit) at their teammates’ flushed cheeks, heavy breathing, and obvious sweating. They also goggle at the paper flowers: one tucked behind Sara’s ear, a whole blue and pink and yellow garland around Snart’s neck, making a flashy contrast with his black leather jacket.

(They both volunteered for the rescue mission. Or, in other words, they both threatened the others out of the rescue mission — and who would have imagined that Kendra could sound almost as menacing as Rory? Not Jax for sure. That semi-goddess full warrior gig can get scary.)

“You okay?” Kendra asks them, the concern obvious in her kind eyes. “What the hell happened?”

Sara opens her mouth. Snart cuts her off before she has the time to say anything.

“We got stuck in the closet,” he says.

“The door was unpickable,” Sara deadpans.

“You saved us from asphyxiation and cramps.”

“Thank you.”

Mick shrugs. He knows Snart ain’t kiss and tell.

Kendra shrugs too. She knows Sara will kiss and tell when ( _if_ ) she feels like it.

In the meantime, whatever happened in the closet in Budapest... etc.

END


End file.
